


Pull My Ribs Apart (Let the Sun Inside)

by osaki_nana_707



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom!Eames, Community: i-reversebang, Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge 2015, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Shower Sex, Torture, mentions of sadism and masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:16:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4924606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaki_nana_707/pseuds/osaki_nana_707
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are two beasts, two stories, two people, not one. This is okay. Eames is content to let his story intertwine with Arthur’s as long as he allows, let their language blend together and then move apart. He’ll always come back to Arthur, always, because he is his captive. Eames is not a devoted sort of man, but at this point it seems as though he saved up every last drop of devotion and put it here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull My Ribs Apart (Let the Sun Inside)

**Author's Note:**

> For i-reversebang 2015. Special thanks to my artist nikavarta for her awesome piece, and to justakidfromhellskitchen for doing a fantastic job beta reading!

**Pull My Ribs Apart (Let the Sun Inside)**

//

There are a couple of misconceptions about Arthur.

The first is that he’s a man that doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. This is untrue. Arthur is a man who doesn’t like to get his _suits_ dirty, but that’s not a finicky thing. Arthur pays more for his clothes than some might pay for their houses, considering that a) they’re perfectly tailored, b) it takes a lot of cash to keep people from selling you out to the highest bidder, and c) he knows what he’s worth. A lot of folks might see a buttoned-up man afraid to get a speck of blood on him, but Arthur’s never been afraid of anything in his goddamned life. He just doesn’t want to have to spend all that money on a shirt (again). It’s not practical.

One thing to be said of Arthur is that he is very practical.

The other thing people assume about Arthur is that, as a man who doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, he’s also one to go running from danger. Perhaps his traipsing across the planet with Cobb helped support this theory, but again, Arthur is a man who’s never feared a person or thing that’s been put in his path. If anything, Arthur’s got a bit of a death wish, playing fast and loose with his rules and moral standards if it serves a greater purpose. Arthur’s one of the greatest criminals on the planet, and it’s a reputation that absolutely and justifiably precedes him. He’s a damned good shot and quick as a whip. The fact that he’s the go-to man for learning details certainly helps him.

Eames knows all this, of course, because he knows Arthur. That is to say, he knows the man behind the legends and the rumors and the misconceptions. He knows because he’s currently sitting in a safe house on the outskirts of Dubai watching Mr. Never-Get-His-Hands-Dirty slice open the skin of a man who’d been hunting him down. Mr. Run-Away-from-Danger had proceeded to dig up all the dirt he needed to find his predator, call in Eames to have him give up Arthur’s location for a hefty sum, and then had waited for him to arrive so he could casually find out who hired him. The man is currently tied to a chair and bleeding from several wounds Arthur has inflicted with the slow, careful precision of a surgeon between each unanswered question. Despite his caution with the wounds, Arthur’s been stripped down to a vest and joggers since the beginning of the Q&A. Arthur’s not opposed to smacking the guy around, after all, and at this point he’s bloodied up to his forearms.

Eames lounges in a kitchen chair, dressed similarly just in case Arthur decides he needs or wants backup, watching Arthur move about the room like the beast he is. The lean, lithe frame under the little bit of clothing he’s wearing is all the more obvious as it sticks to his skin in the heat (Dubai in the summer is blisteringly hot, after all). Eames himself has never minded a little heat, especially when the view is so pleasant. Arthur’s jogging bottoms are slung a bit low on his waist, and when he moves a certain way, Eames can see a patch of skin that he’d like to mark with his teeth. He wouldn’t want to interrupt Arthur’s work though, not when it’s such a pleasure to take part in witnessing. Eames is more patient than people give him credit for. He doesn’t reach out to touch the few loose dark hairs falling around Arthur’s face, nor the barest tinge of a tan on his shoulders, nor the beads of sweat forming at his temples. That is saintly patience, right there.

He’s so distracted by the sight that it takes him a moment to realize the captured man is glaring at him, his mouth curved into a hard frown. Eames has seen him before on occasion, though never in person. He’s in various databases as this name or that name, but his real name is unimportant, just like the rest of him. He’s only a rung on the ladder. Still, Eames can’t help but look when he’s being stared at, and he supposes there’s nothing wrong with admiring Arthur’s handiwork at least. The man’s not ugly, though he’s suffered one too many punches to the nose for it to sit straight ever again, and Arthur’s already bruised him up rather substantially. He’s still fully dressed, which means he’s likely sweltering, and the sweat rolling down his angry, desperate face, getting caught in his stubble and long strands of hair only help send that idea home. His eyes are dark and vengeful, or at least the one that isn’t swelled shut is. “You sold me out,” he barks at Eames. He’s lost a tooth thanks to one of Arthur’s punches.

Eames can’t help but crack into a smile, breath leaving him in a snort. “I kept my end of the bargain,” he offers. “You wanted to know where Arthur was and so I told you. If you think I told him you were coming, you’re mistaken. Playing double agent is for a man far less lazy than myself. He already knew you were coming so a nudge in the right direction from my end only sped up the process of leading you from there to here. The fact that you thought I’d sell him out was really just foolishness on your part.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Eames,” Arthur says lightly, taking the man by the chin and forcing him to turn his head back towards him. He leaves a red handprint behind when he steps back, twirling the knife as if trying to decide where to carve next. “It’s not laziness if the mark isn’t worth the trouble.”

“True,” Eames shrugs, “but you should know I never sell myself short.”

“You’re more of a grower than a shower,” Arthur says, leaving red handprints on his hips after he briefly rests his hands there, “but it’s true, you never lied to me about inches.”

“If anything, I undersold it,” Eames laughs. He wants those handprints all over himself. “I wanted you to be impressed.”

The man in the chair groans in disgust. Arthur smacks him upside the head.

“Your dick isn’t what interests me.”

“Is it not?”

“Well, it’s not the _only_ thing that interests me,” Arthur clarifies, “but for the record, the size of your cock at that time was meaningless in comparison to the intentions of your mouth.”

“Oh, I see, as long as you got your cock sucked, you didn’t care about what happened to mine,” Eames snorts.

“Not particularly.” Arthur leans forward toward the man, just a few inches from his face, as if debating whether or not it would be profitable to remove an eye. Eames certainly wouldn’t put it past Arthur to do such a thing, but he never does anything without a purpose or goal.

“See,” Eames says to the man, “this is how he treats the bloke he likes. I can’t even imagine what he might have in store for you if you don’t start giving up answers now. I mean, you really don’t have much reason to be loyal to the man who hired you at this point, even if he paid you a boatload more than you paid me. Money only gets you so far in life, mate.”

“He is right about that,” Arthur says, carefully dragging the blade across the man’s throat, keeping the wound shallow so that he doesn’t bleed out immediately. “No, see, what can protect you in the end is not cash, not weapons, but someone else. You have to choose carefully who you’re loyal to, or you might end up strapped to a chair in Dubai, slowly bleeding out thanks to the man you were sent to kill.”

“Well, I think his main issue is that he put his trust in the same person you did.”

“No, he put his trust in his money to get him here.”

“Fair point… though it _did_ get him here.”

“I suppose it did.”

The man squirms in the chair. His resolve is starting to crumble, but it’s still there. Eames has to admit he’s a little impressed by the guy for holding on this long. It’s a shame he’ll have to die… but it’s not like either of them need stupid loyalty, even if it is a tiny bit admirable.

Eames gets up then, sauntering over to the fridge and fetching a bottle of water out from inside. He can feel the man’s eyes on him, wide and longing, at the sight of it. It’s been hours and hours since the captive has had a drink, and Eames knows because he’s been here at least that long.

He gives the bottle to Arthur.

“Thanks,” Arthur says as he unscrews the cap, “I knew I kept you here for a reason.”

“I wouldn’t want the long walk from here to the kitchen to interrupt your interview.”

Arthur guzzles the water, and Eames watches his Adam’s apple bob with each swallow. Their captive looks parched. Eames is thirsty for a different reason.

“You can have some of this if you just give me what I want,” Arthur offers the man. “I’m really not asking for much here. Honestly, you’ve wasted more time than you’re worth as it is. I could find out who your buyer is with research, but it’s tedious.” Arthur’s expression is neutral to those who can’t read faces like Eames can. Eames can see the darkness in his eyes though, can see him getting fed up. Arthur’s resolve is crumbling a bit now too apparently, but that’s far from a disadvantage on Arthur’s end.

“I don’t like to leave things unfinished,” Arthur continues, pushing the blade a little deeper into the man’s neck. “I also don’t like when people are uncooperative. I’ve been gentle with you so far, and very patient, but I’ve got better things to do. You have ten seconds to decide now. Tell me your employer, and I’ll stop the misery. If you don’t, then I’ll let you sit here and bleed out slowly. No one’s going to find you out here. No one’s going to save you. Your employer gives less of a shit about you than _I_ do.”

Eames sees a tremor run through the man. His eyes won’t leave Arthur’s face. Eames finds it a bit hard to look away himself.

Arthur sighs, stretching his back. “It’s a shame we’re out of somnacin or I could just go into this bastard’s head and get the info myself. Jesus Christ…”

“I can take over for you, if you like?” Eames asks, digging a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting the end of it. He can’t help but smile when Arthur snags it from him and takes a drag as well.

“No need,” Arthur says as smoke wafts out through his lips, handing back the cigarette. There’s a speck of blood on his face that Eames is tempted to thumb away, but for now he leaves it. “His ten seconds are almost up.”

The man whimpers. All of the rotten glares and indignant behavior are gone.

Arthur smiles, but it doesn’t dimple his cheeks. Those are reserved for Eames’s eyes only. Eames suspects it’s with good reason too because a smile like that makes a man want to conquer cities on its behalf. Not all men have the self-control that Eames has, and they also don’t appreciate that Arthur doesn’t want conquered cities, not unless he’s involved in the conquering—and not unless it serves some sort of purpose. Arthur doesn’t care about power for power’s sake, which might be precisely why he _is_ so powerful.

“All right, time’s up,” Arthur says. “What’s it going to be?”

The man gives a name, and he’s crying when he does it. Eames doesn’t really care who it is and he suspects at this point Arthur doesn’t either. No one that threatening would hire an assassin that didn’t know who they were dealing with.

Arthur moves to the nearby counter. “Much better,” he says, and picks up his pistol. “Took you long enough.” He approaches the man, presses the half-drunk water bottle to his lips and lets him take a swallow. Arthur is a man of his word.

He fires a single bullet through the man’s skull and then he moves, speaks, cries no more.

“Here I thought this was going to be worth it,” Arthur sighs. “It’s hot as balls outside and I’m stuck dealing with this. Fuck.”

Eames stubs out his cigarette in an ash tray and sits back down, tugging Arthur backwards by the waist until he’s sitting in his lap, back plastered against Eames’s front. “Sorry I didn’t bring any somnacin with me. I honestly thought he’d cave as soon as he came through the door and saw you waiting.”

“I wasn’t in the mood to get this bloody today,” Arthur pouts, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips.

“Red _is_ your best color though.”

Arthur snorts, glancing at Eames, and his smirk is obvious now. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you let this drag on because you enjoy it.”

“You say that like you didn’t know that hours ago which is precisely why _you_ let it drag on and likely why you asked me to help you out here in the first place.”

“Most would be concerned that you get a rise out of watching me essentially torture a guy.”

“He was coming to kill you, so I think it’s fair,” Eames says. “Wanting you dead for some sort of petty revenge scheme is pathetic, so of course I enjoy it. Besides, we’re criminals. I don’t expect any less out of beasts like us, and he certainly shouldn’t have either.”

“I’m far from a beast,” Arthur says, minutely adjusting his hips. To most it would appear just to be for his own comfort, but it seems Arthur knows just where to put himself to make Eames want to squirm.

“You absolutely _are_ a beast,” Eames says matter-of-factly, grinning as he tugs Arthur closer. He’s aware that the blood from Arthur’s arms and down the front of his shirt is now getting all over his own arms, but he doesn’t care. He presses a kiss to the side of Arthur’s neck, and he feels just the slightest shiver from him in response. He can’t help but beam with pride. “You are a beast,” Eames says again, knowing Arthur’s teasingly pointing the knife at him even without opening his eyes, “a beast I can never tame and would never want to.”

“You could try, but you might die. Then again, you are a beast too.”

“Please,” Eames practically purrs, chin settling on Arthur’s shoulder. “I’m practically a pussy cat. You’ve tamed _me_ easily.”

“Is that so?”

“Did I not come as soon as you called?”

“We haven’t played that game yet today, Mr. Eames.”

Eames laughs to cover up just how turned on the statement makes him. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes, but if you’re trying to declare love, then I’d prefer you did it when I’m not dripping some other guy’s blood all over you.”

“Mm, not love,” Eames hums, spreading his legs just a tad so that Arthur is seated on his thigh. “Love might not be as flowery as others seem to think, but I’d just as soon avoid doing that in the presence of a corpse.”

“So what then?”

“Loyalty, maybe?”

“I already knew you were loyal to me, Eames.”

“Yes, well, you already know I’m in love with you too, but here we are.”

Arthur sniffs, but it’s not out of skepticism. “Here we are.”

A silence falls over them for a moment, and Eames squeezes Arthur just a bit tighter as they stare out into the living room of the crappy little safe house. It’s as much a mess now as Arthur is, flecks of blood along the walls, and a puddle of it under the chair of their former hostage. It’s a scene that shouldn’t be peaceful, but in their line of work, safety equals peace. Eames doesn’t think he can ask for more than that.

“I suppose we ought to get rid of that bloody thing before rigor mortis sets in,” Eames sighs after a couple of minutes, wishing the moment could last a bit longer.

“I dug a hole before you led him back here,” Arthur says as if he’s just talking about picking up groceries. “We can just throw him in there for now and cover it up later. No one’s going to come out here looking for us.”

“Well, not anyone we can’t take care of ourselves, anyway,” Eames laughs into Arthur’s neck. He sort of wants to sink his teeth in for a moment, just to see Arthur’s reaction, but he doesn’t. “Should I take care of the body then, since you did all of the work?”

Arthur gets up, which Eames at first thinks is a sign for him to do the same, but before he can Arthur seats himself again, this time turned around so he’s facing Eames, arms lacing around his neck. “That would give me time to take a shower,” he says. “The way you’re staring at me makes me think you’d be content if I didn’t, but despite your blood kink, I really don’t know what kind of diseases that motherfucker had, so I’m not exactly into the idea of fucking you like this.”

“I have no such blood kink!” Eames scoffs, but he’s smiling.

“Maybe you’re just a sadist then,” Arthur says, smirking. His hands slide over Eames’s shoulders, turning the straps of his shirt pink and despite Eames’s earlier desires to admire Arthur’s handprints all over himself, he can’t be bothered to pay any sort of attention to them now. Arthur’s eyes are the color of a fine cognac, and Eames wants to get drunk.

“If anyone is the sadist here, it’s you,” Eames hums, hands leaving prints of their own (albeit fainter ones) over Arthur’s ass. “You’re the one who was playing a little torture game after all. I just watched.”

“So what is it then, Mr. Eames?” Arthur asks, his bow-lips curved into a small, curious smile. “What is it that’s got you so entranced?”

Arthur already knows, but the game wouldn’t be any fun if Eames didn’t play along. “I suppose it must be you. All of you. Perhaps I enjoyed watching you harm him because I’m possessive. The only captive you should have in your life is me.”

Arthur’s lips twitch, and his eyes light up. It’s a subtle expression because Arthur lives for subtle, but he is _delighted_. “You’re my _captive_ , are you?”

“From the first day we met and you punched me in Tijuana. I knew there’d never be another like you.”

“Maybe you’re a masochist,” Arthur says, sliding a finger along the bridge of Eames’s nose, as if to find the spot where it had broken from his fist long ago.

“Maybe just a touch,” Eames shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the most disturbing thing about me, honestly.”

“No, I suppose not,” Arthur says, leaning in closer. His lips hover not even centimeters from Eames’s. He can feel Arthur’s warm breath ghosting against them. Eames tilts his head just a little, inviting Arthur in but not moving to close the tiny gap between them. Arthur is the one in control here, and Eames doesn’t have any trouble behaving himself.

“So, should that body wait then?” Eames asks. “You can always fuck me in the bath, you know. Two birds, one stone. It’ll be dark soon, so it won’t be quite so hot when we bury it.”

“The casual way you’re talking about disposing of the body would be one of the things the average person might find disturbing about you.” Arthur finally closes the distance between them, speaking against Eames’s lips, “Stop talking about it. Don’t ruin the moment.”

Eames just hums and kisses Arthur back, leaving faded handprints on Arthur’s thighs.

It occurs to him that people who think Arthur runs and keeps his hands clean don’t realize just how much of a mark Arthur likes to leave in his wake. It’s a bit funny really, that just because he isn’t loud about it, his trace isn’t noticed, but Eames knows every piece of Arthur that’s ever been left behind. He’s got the man’s name tattooed on his skin, various scars and scratches from various incidents (some bloodier than others), and he’s got Arthur’s teeth on his neck, his nails digging into the skin over his biceps.

_I’m here. I’m here. I’m here_ . Arthur says it silently but with regularity. Eames doesn’t know yet why it’s so important to him, but he suspects he will someday. He’s in no rush. Arthur will say what he needs to exactly when he needs to and no sooner. Eames goes with the flow because all of his paths will lead back here, to this, to _him_. He’s always been versatile that way, and he thinks that’s part of why he appeals to Arthur so much. Arthur is certainly more creative than people (and hell, even _Eames_ ) give him credit for, but that doesn’t mean he likes to do things on the fly. Eames will happily improvise at the drop of a hat, but Arthur is no such creature. He’ll do what he needs to do to finish the job, but Arthur knows what can happen when one goes in blindly. Eames frankly wouldn’t be so open to his own imagination if he didn’t know Arthur was there backing him up with the statistics.

They’re different, but like parts of a fine-oiled machine, they work in tandem.

When Arthur parts for breath, it’s only briefly, and the inhale is shaky. Eames suspects he’s suffering a bit of an adrenaline crash, despite his calm demeanor during the interrogation. It’s a reminder he doesn’t need to remember not to try to play Arthur in poker.

Eames does decide to be a bit bold though and move back in, capturing Arthur’s mouth before Arthur can do it first. He usually lets Arthur take the lead—he’s not _demanding_ , but he is a man who knows what he wants—but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind Eames showing some initiative. Eames does do his best to keep himself surprising, even if he knows Arthur would never be bored of him. There’s still so much they don’t know about each other. They may never learn it all. Eames doesn’t find himself terribly complex, but his previous relationships seemed to find him too difficult to figure out. Arthur likes a problem he can sink his teeth into though, thankfully.

As if on cue, Arthur bites Eames’s bottom lip, then sucks on it to soothe the sting. Eames lets out a small groan of approval, chair scraping across the floor as he pushes his way out of it. Arthur’s legs wrap around his waist instinctually. Most would probably expect Arthur to be light considering how slender he is, but he’s almost all muscle. The trek to the bathroom is short though, and as soon as Eames gets Arthur’s back against the wall he drops his legs to stand on his own.

“Stop,” Arthur says, and he does.

Eames blinks once, but he doesn’t have to ask why Arthur’s putting an end to their snogging, because the man moves away to turn on the bath water. “I’m not getting some sort of disease from that guy’s blood because you can’t be patient,” Arthur says, grinning over his shoulder.

“Earlier I was just musing about how I have the patience of a saint, you bastard,” Eames says, grinning right back at him.

It’s funny how, even though the way Arthur’s shirt sticks to him in the heat leaves little to the imagination, Eames’s mouth still goes dry when he peels out of it. Arthur runs his hands under the water, then his arms, getting most of the blood off immediately. Eames’s patience is running a little thin, however, so he excuses himself at least long enough to drag the body out to the hole Arthur had dug and toss it in. It’s not his sexiest move, but he’d rather get it done now than forget about it and bring Arthur back out into the room to ravish him elsewhere and collide with a slowly rotting corpse. At this point, it’s just a part of the job.

Arthur’s in the shower when Eames returns, so Eames doesn’t waste any time ridding himself of his clothes and joining him. “ _Darling_ ,” Eames growls, and the kiss he receives under the spray of water is sharp—teeth and tongue and want.

Arthur grins against Eames’s mouth, one hand coming down to squeeze his ass cheek, the other sliding over the back of his neck. He presses their bodies flush against each other, and it’s like Arthur is his puzzle piece, slotting perfectly against him as if he was made for him. That’s far more saccharine than Eames tends to get even in his own mind, but the thought turns him on rather than embarrasses him.

_I’m here, I’m here, I’m here_ , Arthur’s body is saying again.

Eames lets his hands drift down Arthur’s slick back, and he moves his lips to Arthur’s neck, kissing and nipping along the wet skin there. Arthur lets out a small sound and it goes directly to Eames’s cock, causing it to twitch where it’s already standing at attention, curving towards his stomach and purple at the head. Arthur’s hard too, probably has been before he even got into the bath, but Eames doesn’t touch him yet.

No, Eames takes his time with Arthur. Arthur is worthy of worship if he so desires it, but Arthur would never want to be put on a pedestal, so this is what Eames does instead.

Eames trails kisses along Arthur’s jugular, across his clavicle, and further down, admiring as he goes. Arthur only has the smallest smattering of hair on his chest, right in the middle. There’s more around his navel, trailing down around his privates. Eames is a bit enamored by Arthur’s hair—the dark, coffee color of it, the curl of it, the softness. As Eames continues down his body, dropping to his knees as if to pray, he buries his nose into the pubic hair, fingers squeezing Arthur’s thighs with promise. He can’t help but delight at the sight of a greenish bruise on Arthur’s hip, one the shape of Eames’s fingers. His only regret is that it’s been long enough since he’s been touched there that the bruise has had time to fade.

“You gonna spend all day down there looking, or you gonna do something?” Arthur asks. His voice is low and unbearably fond.

Eames looks up at Arthur through his lashes, smiles widely. “Aren’t we eager?”

“I guess I don’t have your saintly patience,” Arthur says.

“Who could blame you? You’ve got a guy like me on his knees before you.”

Arthur’s hand takes hold of Eames’s hair, pulling just slightly, though not enough to actually hurt. “I’d call you conceited, but you actually have a point.”

“All I’m really waiting for is your instructions, Arthur.”

“Didn’t think you needed me to tell you what to do, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says as Eames nuzzles against his thigh. Arthur would sound impartial to the untrained ear, but Eames can tell by the slightest bite to his voice that he needs more. Eames briefly wonders if he could get Arthur off just through his teasing, but he decides to shelve the idea for another day.

Arthur is _here_ , and he wants it to be known. Arthur is _here_ , and he wants Eames to show him that he knows it. In moments like these, words mean nothing to him. With the two of them, touch communicates far more clearly than English.

Eames licks a stripe up the underside of Arthur’s cock. Arthur shivers, fingers gripping more tightly into Eames’s hair as his head tilts backwards into the spray again. Eames does it a second time, and the reaction is stronger. Arthur may have been aroused for the entirety of the torture session if he’s already this responsive. He doubts it was the act itself that got him there though. Maybe he just felt Eames’s gaze.

“Fuck,” Arthur hisses. It’s enough to confirm to Eames that he’s right. A single look up from Eames has Arthur’s leg muscles twitching with the desire to rock his hips.

Arthur is in command, but that doesn’t mean Eames has no control. If anything, Arthur’s command would be meaningless if he didn’t trust Eames to take the reins on occasion. If there wasn’t a push-and-pull, it wouldn’t be any fun.

Eames presses a kiss to the shaft before taking the tip of Arthur’s cock into his mouth, giving it a tentative suck before taking him further. Arthur’s grip slackens against Eames’s scalp but doesn’t move away. Eames strokes Arthur’s thighs, and pulls back before diving in again. He’s slow about it though, not wanting to get Arthur off too quickly. They’ve got all the time in the world, so Eames intends to draw out as much pleasure as possible. When he pulls back again, he lets the tip of his tongue lave around the head, swiping away the beads of pre-cum already there. He feels Arthur’s hand move from the back of his head to the side of his face, cupping his jaw, and so he kisses the tip again. “What would you have me do, darling?” Eames asks, then licks another stripe up the underside. “D’you want to get off just like this?”

“No,” Arthur says. His voice is deeper and full of gravel. It makes Eames ache gloriously. “Come here.”

Eames rises to his feet and meets Arthur in another hungry kiss, one so fast their teeth almost clack together. Eames knows Arthur can taste himself in his mouth, and that only makes his ache all the sweeter.

“How will you have me then?” Eames asks when the kiss breaks, moving to nibble at the skin just behind Arthur’s ear.

Arthur’s hands roam over Eames’s ass, a finger just pressing against the entrance. There’s not much resistance considering how comfortable Eames is with him but Arthur still tilts away from further kisses to meet Eames’s gaze in a silent question of permission. Eames doesn’t know why Arthur even needs it at this point, but he always appreciates it the same. The kiss Eames gives him this time is chaste. It’s his way of showing his agreement.

Their bodies slot together again briefly, their mouths distracted by each other, and then Eames turns around to give Arthur access.

They may not have been together in a while due to work, but it doesn’t mean that Eames has been left wanting. He’s fucked himself to thoughts of Arthur time and time again, and he’s sure Arthur’s done the same. Back at the beginning of their relationship (or whatever it could be called), they’d seen other people during those times, but at this point anyone else is no longer satisfying. The only one Eames wants is Arthur, and the only one Arthur wants is Eames.

He suspects a lot of that is because they read each other so well that everyone else just comes across as clumsy.

Arthur doesn’t take much time to prep him because he doesn’t need it, though he does massage Eames’s prostate for a minute or so. Arthur doesn’t rush through sex, but he knows exactly when to start one thing and move to another, and he never has to ask because he knows Eames so well. Eames never thought someone would be able to figure even this much out about him, but he’s sure Arthur’s still in for a surprise or two along the way.

That being said, Arthur still knows a hell of a lot more about Eames than Eames knows about Arthur. This isn’t a _bad_ thing at all. Despite Eames’s line of work, he feels as though he presents himself as a somewhat meaty novel… but Arthur is fucking _War and Peace_. Eames has only barely begun.

Arthur fucks Eames leisurely at first, breath hitching a little every time his rolls his hips forward. Eames braces himself against the shower wall with both hands, coaxing Arthur on with each delighted sound. It’s a marked improvement from his own fingers and vibrators over the last several weeks, and, as always when in the middle of it, Eames wonders how he could possibly have gone without Arthur for as long as he did. This is, of course, true for two separate reasons—one being that Arthur never wants to become so wrapped up in a person that he loses himself (he’d seen it far too vividly with the Cobbs), and the second being that spending every waking moment together would likely lead to one murdering the other eventually.

They are two beasts, two stories, two people, not one. This is okay. Eames is content to let his story intertwine with Arthur’s as long as he allows, let their language blend together and then move apart. He’ll always come back to Arthur, always, because he is his captive. Eames is not a devoted sort of man, but at this point it seems as though he saved up every last drop of devotion and put it here.

He likes to think Arthur’s entirely devoted to him too, but he won’t ask. Arthur will tell him when he’s ready to, just like everything else.

“Come on, darling, you’re not going to break me,” Eames says instead, grinning over his shoulder.

Arthur smiles back at him, just erring on the side of wicked, and he picks up his pace. He meets Eames in a slightly ill-positioned kiss at his shoulder and then makes work of his neck, sinking his teeth in just enough to leave his mark.

_I’m here._

There’s no more talking after that, their vocal cords saved for breathless moans in duet and harmony with one another. Arthur’s hands plant themselves on Eames’s hips for a little while, gripping hard enough to bruise, and Eames revels in it.

It’s only when Arthur’s rhythm starts to sputter a little that Arthur’s hand moves to Eames’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Eames’s head falls back with a blissful groan, legs shaking a little beneath him. He knows Arthur’s not going to last too long, and he wonders if Arthur has put off even so much as touching himself in the last several weeks just so that he could experience this moment. Arthur’s not nearly the stick in the mud that Eames jokes he is, but the man can be fastidious. Arthur doesn’t do anything halfway, so he doesn’t want to do anything and not be entirely satisfied.

…and hey, if it’s Arthur’s way of being romantic, Eames can’t really complain. Their ardor has never been flowers and chocolates and Paris in spring. It’s exactly this now—bruises, safe houses, and trust. It might not be the most realistic thing for the average person, but to imply Arthur is anywhere near average would be an insult anyway.

Arthur is hitting Eames’s prostate and it’s enough to nearly make him come undone, but Eames holds out right up until Arthur’s speed comes to an abrupt stop. Arthur’s forehead drops to Eames’s shoulder, and that’s when Eames shudders to orgasm too.

He’s never been able to explain how it feels when he comes undone with Arthur. He suspects he never will.

For several minutes after, the both of them are doing nothing but panting and trembling. Arthur pulls out but doesn’t move away, arms lacing around Eames’s waist. Eames lets him stand like that for a moment or two before he turns around to face him, pressing their bodies together once again. Eames strokes his hand through Arthur’s hair and down his back, leaves a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So,” he says, when he can finally get his breath about him again, “would now be a better time for telling you that I love you? Hypothetically, that is.”

Arthur’s dimples go on display as he playfully shoves Eames off of him. “Fuck you.”

Eames drags him back over into the spray of water and kisses him again until neither of them can breathe.

Arthur doesn’t answer the question, but he doesn’t need to. Arthur knows Eames loves him, knows it when he says it, knows it when he doesn’t. He’s not the type to get wrapped up in ornamental language and declarations. He doesn’t feel the point in saying things without purpose.

Arthur is practical. Arthur is a beast. Arthur is here, and that should be enough to tell Eames how he feels.

…and yet…

Arthur breaks the kiss, leaves another chaste one on the end of it like punctuation, and he says, “I love you.”

Apparently Arthur is quite capable of surprising him.

Eames can’t help but wonder if maybe he doesn’t even know Arthur as well as he thought. Arthur who never does anything without a purpose states three common words very plainly and just for Eames. It takes Eames a minute or two to recover, but when he does, it actually makes sense.

This is Arthur’s mark.

_I am **here**._

His devotion is as simple as it is all encapsulating. With three plain words, Arthur is saying _I am here and you can have all of me. I am still me, but I am also yours._

It’d be a bit terrifying, Eames imagines, for a normal person to love so wholly and completely. A normal person would be afraid they might lose oneself in somebody else with that kind of piety… but Arthur’s not normal.

Arthur’s never been afraid of anything in his goddamned life.


End file.
